A Study In Silence
by saelysia-the-greater
Summary: When John notices that the flat is silent, he immediately becomes suspicious. Sherlock's always making noise, even in the Mind Palace. What could he possibly be up to? Post-Reichenbach. Rated M for scenes of a sexual nature. Johnlock, non-established relationship.


_** A Study in Silence**_

_A/N: Hello there, everyone. This is most definitely not part of the _New Perspective _re-write, but a bit of a distraction for me. It originally started out as a bribe to a friend in exchange for reading her Stark Spangled Banner story, but alas, that did not work out. Anyway, I grew attached to this one, and decided to share with you._

_"All This and Heaven Too" by Florence + the Machine, "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake, and "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine wrote this chapter._

**WARNING:**_This one-shot is **rated M** FOR A REASON. It contains explicit sex scenes between two men, and if that makes you squicky, you can hit that beautiful little back button and never come back._

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Silence.

John Watson looked up from the medical paperwork Sarah had given him that afternoon, his head tilted at a slight angle.

There was no noise coming from the kitchen. No sounds of Sherlock blowing things up in the microwave, no glasses breaking, no strange popping noises or noise of any kind.

Absolute silence.

In a normal household, silence was welcome, not to be unexpected. It was a simple product of two adults finding ways to occupy their time without the need to speak or make noise.

However, most people did not live with Sherlock Holmes.

Even when he was in the Mind Palace, Sherlock was always making noise. He would mutter, tap things, shuffle his feet. His violin was never too far away, and lately John had heard Sherlock get the instrument at all hours of the night, playing scales and arpeggios as he tried to solve whatever problem that was plaguing him.

John, of course, did not ask what was on Sherlock's mind. He did not ask, because he knew the answers he would get.

_'It's nothing of consequence, John._'

_'Why are you pestering me? Please, I need silence._'

_'I do not like to be disturbed in my Mind Palace, John._'

_'Screw the bloody Mind Palace,_' John would mutter darkly when he was out of Sherlock's hearing range. Wasn't it alright that he was showing concern for his best friend? The man he...he'd fallen in love with.

Though he'd never actually said it, John was sure that Sherlock knew. He hadn't really bothered tried to hide his affection, the soft look in his eye when he'd smile at Sherlock, or the way he'd stammer when Sherlock would stand too close or brush against him. The way his heart felt as if it would stop beating or his breath would suffocate him whenever he thought Sherlock was in danger.

After the Fall, John had lost himself, wallowing in misery, refusing to leave the flat for days, not eating, not sleeping. Not living. He had nearly given Mrs. Hudson a heart attack when she'd come up to check on him one day, only to find he'd collapsed due to stress and malnutrition.

In the hospital, Lestrade had come to visit him, his jaw set angrily, his jacket billowing around him like a cloak. He'd yelled, he'd raged, he'd cried at John, slamming a chair against the wall, much to John's surprise. He had barely restrained himself from slapping John in the face, only because a nurse had come to check on the disturbance.

_'You think you're the only one who misses him?! The only one who feels guilty?! For fuck's sake, John! I started to believe the Richard Brook story! I went against him, and I didn't believe him! Christ, John, I feel terrible enough already. And now you pull a stunt like this? God dammit, you tosser. How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?_'

John had very quietly admitted that he hadn't been sleeping, because all of his dreams were about the Fall. All he could see was Sherlock's broken body, his bright blue eyes wide open, blood matting those wild curls. Lestrade nodded and said he would help him as best as he could.

John was sure he would have given up long ago if it hadn't been for Lestrade, who pestered him constantly to eat and bathe.

John felt as if his entire world had stopped in that moment, the moment he heard Sherlock say, 'Goodbye, John.'

And then he jumped.

It was that trip to the hospital, Lestrade's angry words and not entirely welcome interference and Mrs. Hudson's teary pleading, that woke him up. He realised that he needed to get on with his life, that he would always carry a part of Sherlock with him, but Sherlock was gone and there was no way of getting him back.

He went back to working at the hospital, though only part-time, and he set about cleaning up the flat. He tossed out the rotten food, the mangled body parts, disposing of the chemicals, straightening up the sitting room. He left Sherlock's room untouched, as well as a majority of Sherlock's knickknacks around the flat.

Though he told himself otherwise, John knew he kept them there because he secretly waited for the moment when Sherlock would run up the stairs, vibrating with excitement because of a new case.

It was also during this time that he realised just how painfully hard he had fallen for the consulting detective, the first time he'd met him and had been asked _'Afghanistan or Iraq_?' The first time he'd ever saved Sherlock's life, that very same night, and Sherlock had lied for him.

Sherlock was the first person who hadn't looked at him like he was broken, like he wasn't a whole person anymore. Sherlock didn't pity him, didn't talk down to him, didn't try to tiptoe around sensitive subjects. He was real and raw and he knew exactly how to handle John. He manipulated him, lied to him, kept him in the dark, protected him.

Sherlock had redefined his world, given the broken soldier a purpose again. He wasn't alone anymore, not with Sherlock. Not even with the heated arguments, the long, tense silences, the angry glares when one of the flatmates in 221B disrupted the symbiotic lifestyle they had.

Sherlock became his world. He was captivated by everything Sherlock did, the way his voice sounded, the beautiful music he made on his violin, his hands fluttering as he tried to explain his theories to John. The wrinkle between his eyebrows when he was puzzling over something, the way he spoke to John as if he were the only other intelligent person in the room.

Everything in his life began and ended with Sherlock. He was John's sun and moon, the force he gravitated around.

He had drank himself into a stupor that night, waking to a raging hangover and his face pressed against the cold porcelain of the loo, dried tear marks still on his cheeks.

He had cleaned himself up, pouring all of the scotch in his flat down the drain, and vowing he would not touch another glass of alcohol ever again.

He went on with his life, keeping his love for Sherlock in his heart, never sharing it with anyone, but he suspected Mrs. Hudson knew, judging by the sad smile she'd send his way when he had her over for tea.

Three years. Three bloody years he went on, working, going out to the pub with Lestrade and some blokes from Barts, tea and supper with Mrs. Hudson, ignoring all of Mycroft's attempts to contact him. He danced with Molly at her wedding, cheerfully threatening Lestrade with all kinds of torture should Molly ever be unhappy. Molly only laughed and kissed Lestrade, saying she'd never been happier.

And then one day, in the middle of April, after having lunch with Molly and finding out that she and Greg were expecting their first child, John returned to 221B to find the door unlocked.

Mrs. Hudson had been on holiday, visiting her niece and sister in Spain, and the only other person who would have access to his flat would have been Mycroft.

It couldn't have been Mycroft, though, because he had stopped trying to contact John when John had, not very politely, told Mycroft to fuck off and leave him alone after not-so-sureppitiously kidnapping him. Anthea had smiled behind her Blackberry at that, her fingers flying over the keys.

John had approached the door cautiously, careful not to much too much noise, and opened it slowly, the bag of groceries he'd picked up at Tesco on his way home dropping onto the floor.

In all of his glory, Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of the flat, his hands clasped behind his back, a semi-worried expression on his face. His eyes immediately lit up when he saw John, his lips curling into a smile. _'Hello, John,_' he'd said quietly.

John stared at him for a long while, his mouth hanging open in shock, before tears began to well in his eyes and slip down his cheeks. _'Y-You're...you're not..._' he choked out helplessly, surging forward to wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock's chest, squeezing the taller man's ribcage, his head resting right in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. _'You're real. I'm not crazy.'_

_'You most assuredly are not_,' Sherlock replied smoothly, his voice a little tight from the pressure of John's arms.

John released him, pulling back a little to stare in wonderment at Sherlock's face, his cheekbones, his eyes, his hair, a wide, ecstatic smile gracing John's face.

Then the smile quickly melted into a frown, and Sherlock had no hope of dodging John's unexpected right hook.

He gave Sherlock the silent treatment for the next few days, allowing the consulting detective to move back in to 221B, listening to him try to explain why he left and why he was unable to return until now.

When John began to speak to him again, they had fallen right back into their normal routine, as if Sherlock had never left.

Now, months later, John set his pen down and stood up, the silence unnerving him. Whenever Sherlock was silent, nothing good ever came of it. There was no such thing as soothing silence at 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" He moved around the desk, heading down the small, short hallway that led to the bathroom, his room, and Sherlock's room at the end of the hall. Knowing that Sherlock would not be in the bathroom, John knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door, turning the knob and cracking it open just enough to peer in.

"Sherlock?"

It was immaculate, as always, with the bed neatly made, clothes hanging up in the appropriate places, his mobile laying plugged in to the charger.

But no Sherlock.

John frowned and closed the door, staring at it for a moment before sighing angrily. The blighter was in his room, doing God knows what to his things. Probably testing them for arsenic or anthrax traces or burning them or something else less than savory.

John went to his room and opened the door, not bothering to knock. It was his own bedroom for Christ's sake.

"Sherlock, if you're touching my things again, I swear to -" He broke off, his eyes going wide, a hot flush burning across his cheeks.

Laying on his bed, stretched out without a care in the world, was Sherlock Holmes wearing nothing but his pants.

He was staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped underneath his head, his expression positively bored.

John's heart began to race in his chest, his trousers tightening slightly as his eyes traced over the pale, lithe contours of Sherlock's long body, licking his lips unconsciously. "S-Sherlock...what are you doing?" John asked, his voice hitching as Sherlock turned his eyes to him.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way up here," Sherlock remarked casually, as if he weren't almost naked on John's bed, like John didn't look as if he were struggling to breathe.

"I got suspicious," John answered, "when I couldn't hear anything exploding." His heart was beating painfully, his blood roaring in his ears. "W-What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?" He hated the way he was stumbling over his words, like his brain was refusing to work.

Sherlock lifted himself, propping his weight on his elbows, cocking his head to the side and staring at John with scrutiny, his eyebrows scrunching together.

"You are attracted to me, yes?" Sherlock asked finally, pinning John with a cutting look when John shifted uncomfortably against the doorway. "Your reaction, flushed face, dilated pupils, all suggest that you-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, swallowing heavily. "Please. Stop this." He looked down at his feet, sighing through his nose. "Put your clothes back on."

There was silence for a long moment until Sherlock spoke.

"No, John."

John raised his head with a sharp intake of breath, his throat squeezing harshly. "Sherlock, this isn't funny. Put your clothes back on, and-"

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up so fast John thought he might have suffered from whiplash. "Would you please stop your incessant rambling and allow me to explain?" He glared at John, his face softening when he saw the expression his friend wore. "John, I know how you...feel about me. Though I can't possibly comprehend why you feel that way, I've known for years now. You haven't exactly tried to keep it to yourself."

John raised an eyebrow, trying to hide his embarrassment behind nonchalance. He leaned against the doorframe, swallowing once more and doing his best to ignore the hardness in his trousers.

Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing. "I've been aware of it for quite sometime, but I ignored it, and I presumed...maybe...that you would outgrow this...infatuation with me, but I-"

"You're an idiot," John said darkly, straightening up. "For being one of the smartest men I've ever met, you are definitely the biggest idiot, Sherlock Holmes." He glared at Sherlock, who was staring at John with his mouth agape, his hands curling into tight fists at his side. "This isn't some 'infatuation' as you said, it never was. I've been in love with you ever since I met you, you bloody git. It took me a better part of a year and a half to put my life back together after I thought you died. There are mornings when I wake up and I think you've gone and I can't function properly until I see you. So if you think I'm going to tolerate you sitting in your pants on my bed, telling me about my 'infatuation' you've got another think coming, Sherlock."

John spat the last part out furiously, turning away and storming out of his room, which was a bit difficult given the hard-on he currently had. Anger coursed through his veins, his face flushing darkly. He had never been more angry at Sherlock in the time he had known him, not even after the Fall, and that was saying something.

He heard Sherlock scramble off of the bed, the noise followed by a panicked, "John!" John shook his head, deliberately ignoring his flatmate and kept walking into the living room.

He was reaching for the front door when Sherlock slammed into him, nearly knocking him over onto the floor. He grasped John by the shoulders, pinning him to the wall, his face a centimetre away from John's.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's lips, and he whispered, "You didn't let me finish, John." His pupils were blown wide, and John could count every single one of Sherlock's long, dark eyelashes. His heart felt as if it were about to burst, Sherlock's presence filling all of his senses.

"Sherlock, what d'you-"

And then Sherlock was kissing him.

John's eyes went wide, his entire body freezing against Sherlock, all of the air in his lungs leaving him for a brief moment before he lifted his hands to cup Sherlock's face, pressing their lips together tightly.

Sherlock parted his lips slightly, allowing John to hungrily attack them, savouring the taste of Sherlock's mouth - sweet, sharp, spicy, like cinnamon and spearmint. John felt his head spin as Sherlock's tongue flicked experimentally against his lips before plunging it into John's mouth.

Sherlock's hands trailed down from John's shoulders to his hips, grasping them tightly and pulling John to him. John could feel Sherlock's heart fluttering under his skin, the heat pouring off of his body seeping into John through his clothes.

John pulled away first, his chest heaving with the need for oxygen. His eyes were wide, Sherlock's fingers biting into his hips, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He stared at Sherlock, whose face was tinted pink, and stuttered, "W-Why?"

"While I was gone, away from you, I realised how much I needed you," Sherlock answered swiftly, one of his hands lifting to cradle the back of John's head. "I was completely lost and alone, the way I was before you came into my life. And I realised that I...I..." He swallowed, as if the words were hard for him to get out. "I realised that I love you."

'I love you.'

John parted his lips to speak, but Sherlock pressed on. "That's why I've been so distant the past week, John. I was...coming to terms...with my feelings. I don't feel as other people do, John, and I don't-"

John knew that. He knew that all of his life, Sherlock had tried to suppress his emotions, building up a set of armor around himself to keep everyone out and keep himself in. He acted cold and callous, seeming as if emotions were a foreign concept to him, but John had seen that façade slip occasionally. When Sherlock thought that he wasn't looking.

"Please, Sherlock, for the love of God," John interrupted. "Shut up." He smiled up at Sherlock, his hands still cupping the consulting detectives face. "Just this once."

Sherlock nodded dumbly, moaning softly when John kissed him again, tightening his fingers in John's short hair as John nipped carefully at his bottom lip. He opened his mouth and allowed John's tongue in, the feeling of John's body pressed against him sending a thrill of pleasure down his spine.

He could feel John's erection against his thigh, which only excited him more and he ground his hips forward slightly, testing the waters hesitantly.

John groaned from the back of his throat, letting his head fall back as Sherlock continued to grind his hips against John's, Sherlock making use of the exposed skin of his neck. He nipped at the juncture between John's shoulder and neck, sucking slightly at the skin as he hands grappled for purchase on John's jumper.

John's fingers wound themselves tightly into Sherlock's hair, gripping the strands when Sherlock continued sucking on his neck, his tongue licking a large stripe up the flesh. John rocked his hips forward, pleased when he felt that Sherlock was just as aroused as he was.

"S-Shit, Sherlock," John stammered, his erection straining against the confines of his trousers. "Jesus." Sherlock took John's earlobe into his mouth, sucking hard on it. John's knees threatened to buckle, and he whispered hoarsely, "Bedroom. Now."

Sherlock pulled away from John's ear and kissed him with bruising force, leading them away from the wall and back down the hallway. In the back of his mind, John was impressed that Sherlock could navigate the hall backwards, with John glued to his lips, but he thoughts were elsewhere. Like the fact he was about to take Sherlock to bed.

John moved his hands down Sherlock's back, where his short nails dug into the skin slightly when Sherlock bit down roughly on his lips, making him hiss in pleasure.

Sherlock tugged impatiently at the hem of John's jumper as his tongue danced with John's, pulling it and his undershirt up over his stomach and chest, dislodging John's mouth from his momentarily to yank the offending clothing over John's head and throw it on the floor outside of John's bedroom. He smirked hungrily at John, a predatory gleam in his eye as his hands went to John's belt.

"Why is it," he breathed, "that you still have so many clothes on?"

"Because you aren't taking them off fast enough," John retorted, grabbing the back of Sherlock's head and melding their lips back together. He smiled into Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock fumbled with his belt, sliding it from around John's waist with a hiss of triumph.

Aware that Sherlock was still only in his underwear, John slid his hand down Sherlock's strong chest and skimmed his fingers under the waistband, making Sherlock moan and arch his back slightly, pressing his erection into John's. John tugged on them, pulling them down Sherlock's impossibly long legs as Sherlock tried to undo John's trousers with shaking fingers.

"J-John," Sherlock moaned, panting as John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's length, giving him a few experimental tugs. "Oh God, John." His head fell back, his eyes closing tightly, his hands gone slack at John's waist.

John tightened his hand, smoothing his motions out as Sherlock began to buck his hips in time with John's hand, loving the sounds that Sherlock was making.

"J-John, I-I..._ Oh God_..."

John leaned forward to press his lips against Sherlock's throat, nipping at his Adam's apple as it bobbed up and down, pushing Sherlock backwards so that the back of his legs hit John's bed, sending Sherlock clumsily onto his back, John falling almost on top of him.

John shifted so that he was hovering over Sherlock, his knee between Sherlock's spread legs, his hands on either side of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock was staring at him with wide eyes, his lips swollen and red, little bite marks already forming on his neck. He smiled at John, hands gripping John's hips tightly. "I want you, John," he whispered.

John felt his breath hitch, and he could only smile in response. "Get these clothes off of me and you'll have me." Sherlock's pupils were blown wide as he nodded eagerly and went back to John's trousers, growling in frustration at the fastening.

"Of all the...stupidest...bloody..."

John chuckled in the back of his throat and helped him, unsnapping the button with a satisfied smile, turning his attention back to Sherlock's lips, lapping at them until they parted for him.

He lifted his hips to allow Sherlock to push his trousers down his legs, which he shook off at his ankles, and then lowered them to Sherlock's, hissing in pleasure as his erection slid against Sherlock's.

Sherlock arched his back once again, moaning and grinding his hips up into John's. John groaned and nuzzled his head into Sherlock's neck, biting into the skin to muffle the noise.

"Christ Sherlock," he panted, sliding his hand down to Sherlock's cock and gripping it once more, smirking at the way Sherlock writhed underneath of him, his hips bucking as John stroked him.

"J-John, I'm going-" Sherlock reared up and pulled John into a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding into John's mouth with no warning as he came, covering John's hand with his seed.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock," John cried, feeling his own orgasm was not far off.

"I need you, John," Sherlock said, his nails digging sharply into John's back. "Please. Inside me. Oh God, John. I need you." His pleads were babbled, almost incoherent, but John could understand him perfectly.

Reaching over Sherlock's head, John fumbled with the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out the small bottle of lube he had picked up for reasons he couldn't quite recall. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's throat, trailing his tongue over the hollow just above his sternum.

"I don't have any c-condoms," he said, white stars forming behind his eyes as he felt Sherlock wrap a large, calloused hand around his throbbing dick, his thumb flicking over the slit. "Good Christ, Sher..."

"Don't care," Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I'm clean. So are you. Just hurry up."

Smiling at Sherlock's haste, John ground his hips downward as Sherlock pulled on him, breathing harshly through his mouth as he uncapped the lube and poured a liberal amount of the cold liquid onto his hand, using his knees to spread Sherlock's legs apart.

"This will be cold," he warned, before trailing a hand down Sherlock's pelvis and his cock, which was already half-hard again. He fingered the younger man's balls for a moment, nearly coming from the noises that flew from Sherlock's mouth.

The way Sherlock was saying his name, almost like a mantra, was driving him insane. His voice was rough with desire, like John had never heard it before, and he loved it. He loved that he was unraveling the consulting detective, his consulting detective.

Thinking of Sherlock as his set John's heart aflame, the pleasure and love he had for Sherlock coursing through his veins. Carefully, he pushed a finger inside of the writhing, moaning mass of flesh beneath him, kissing him of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock was tight and hot around his finger, and he pumped it in and out a few times, loosening him, before adding a second one.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John whispered. "You feel so good, so tight." He groaned low in his throat.

Sherlock's eyes went wide and his legs spasmed, his chest heaving as he cried out. He hiked his legs around John's waist, drawing him in tighter as John stretched him. "John, please, just-"

"Patience, Sherlock," John said huskily, kissing the consulting detective and slipping a third finger in. He could feel himself slowly coming undone, but he wanted to make sure that Sherlock was prepared first.

"J-John, p-please," Sherlock whined against his mouth, his hands cupping the back of John's neck. "I need you, inside me. Now."

It was the broken sound of Sherlock's pleading that made John withdraw his fingers and coat himself in lube, now warm from being inside of Sherlock.

"Eyes on me, Sherlock," he whispered gently, holding Sherlock's chin in his hand as he slowly began to push in, his eyes rolling into the back of his head in pleasure. "Tell me to stop if I hurt you."

Sherlock tensed slightly, whimpering in discomfort, scratching at John's neck as John filled him, wriggling to adjust to the sensation of being so full. It felt amazing, but it felt like so much at the same time.

"Oh Sherlock," John exhaled, giving Sherlock a moment to situate himself once he was completely inside of him. Sherlock was so tight, so hot around him, that it took every ounce of willpower not to drive into him. "You feel amazing. Oh God. Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, swallowing the slight pain, letting pleasure take its place. "Move," he whispered. "Dear God, please move."

Slowly, John pulled out nearly all of the way before pushing back in, hissing when Sherlock sank into teeth into John's shoulder, his legs tightening around John's waist to draw John in further. He rocked back with John, grinding his hips against John, his erection trapped between their stomachs. The friction, slickened by their sweat, felt delicious against Sherlock's skin, and his head fell back as John began to thrust faster.

"H-Harder, John. Oh God. Right there. Oh John."

John smirked, sucking on Sherlock's neck as he snapped his hips harder, his hands curling around Sherlock's biceps. He had never felt so elated in his life, the man he loved loved him in return, and he was making love to him.

John felt his heart squeeze in his chest as he kissed Sherlock soundly, thrusting harder into Sherlock and earning a high-pitched keen from the consulting detective.

"What was that?!" Sherlock cried, his eyes going wide.

John chuckled breathlessly. "That was your prostate, luv." He thrust in again, keeping his angle the same, hitting the bundle of nerves once more.

"John," Sherlock panted, his face flushed. "I..._hnng_...I love you, John Watson."

John stilled for a moment, staring down at Sherlock in wonder, his mouth agape, his face flushing before smiling and whispering, "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock as he came, his heart soaring over the waves of euphoria rushing through him. He rode out his orgasm, breathing heavily as he lay atop Sherlock.

They were silent for a while, holding each other tightly, their limbs twining together. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's matted hair.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"I've...I've never done before," Sherlock admitted, staring up at the ceiling. "I've never...had anyone...before you. Emotionally or...or physically." His cheeks turned pink at the admission, and he turned his face away from John. "I'm no good at this."

John stared at him incredously, grabbing Sherlock's chin and forcing him to look at John. "Listen, Sherlock," he said softly, but sternly. "I didn't wait for you for years only to have you pull away when I've finally got you. I don't care that you've never slept with a man before, or never had a relationship. I'll help you through that, because I love you and I'm not going anywhere. You can't scare me away that easily."

Sherlock nodded silently, snuggling in deeper to John's embrace instead of answering. He rested his head against John's chest, right over his heartbeat.

"I'm glad I came home," Sherlock said quietly, pressing a kiss to John's chest as John began to comb his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"I am too, Sherlock," John whispered. "It was the worst three years of my life, thinking I'd never see you again. I thought for sure I was going to be alone forever. But I'm not alone anymore, and that's all that matters."

Silence returned, both of the men dozing slightly, forgetting about their sweaty, sticky bodies, until John's eyes snapped open. "Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes, John?"

"Why were you wearing my boxers?"

There was silence in 221B Baker Street. The good kind of silence.

* * *

_I hope you all enjoyed that. This, my dears, is my very first lemon. Well, slash lemon. I've written hetero lemons before. Anyway, I hope I wasn't incredibly awful, though you can leave a nice little review for me, right? Tell me what you thought? Be prepared for a few more Johnlock one-shots, and keep an eye out for the re-write of _New Perspective,_ which I believe will have a different title. And to the new fans who have no idea what I'm talking about, I hope you check out my other stories. (There's some shameless self-promotion there!)_

_Love and affection,_

_Sael_


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